


a life in your shape

by mellodrama



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Communication, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 13:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellodrama/pseuds/mellodrama
Summary: Maya rolls her eyes, bumping their noses together. "You're so dramatic," she says fondly. "I'll be back by two. You'll survive.""Don't be so sure!" Lola calls out as Maya exits down the hallway.(Or: Valentine's Day, 2021)
Relationships: Maya Etienne/Lola Lecomte
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	a life in your shape

**Author's Note:**

> a very belated valentine's day fic in response to what lola posted on her story that day, which you can view [here](https://skamfr2021.tumblr.com/post/643109112773738496/lola-ig-story-feb-14th-explanation-255-days-ago) (parts of this fic will make more sense if you click on it lol). this is basically 7k words of fluff with minor angst and a hint of the communication we're not seeing in canon
> 
> title from the song "strawberry blond" by mitski

**\---**

_“What is a promise if not your hand in mine?”_

\- Alice Walker

“Maybe I should come with you.”

Maya turns from where she's digging through Lola's wardrobe — _their_ wardrobe now, technically, and despite the steadfast desire to find her own apartment soon, Maya struggles to suppress a smile at the idea of something even temporarily being theirs.

"Unless...you realized in the shower that you hate me and never want to see me again?" Lola continues, eyebrows raised. Two, three months ago, Maya knows she would've detected a hint of insecurity within that question, a drop of genuine fear seeping through, but today she just finds another reason for her smile to grow even wider.

After months of therapy, communication, and sobriety, things between them feel more secure than ever — hence the search for a separate apartment, something Lola still doesn't quite comprehend: _why move out when you're so happy here?_ she occasionally asks, mostly curious, sometimes demanding, but Maya hasn't yet figured out how to verbalize that as someone who craves independence — or whose life has simply forced her to become accustomed to independence; the line between the two is a little blurry — their present housing situation has been both a comforting _and_ suffocating experience.

The heaviness of that conversation looms above them, its inevitability inching closer with every apartment Maya checks out, but it's their first Valentine's Day together — the first of many, she hopes — and Maya's content to let that remain her sole focus for now.

At the very least, it’ll be something nice to daydream about during her shift. She already knows those six hours are going to feel like an eternity when serving the stream of love-drunk, overly-handsy couples invading the store today.

Normally, she doesn’t mind them.

Normally, there’s no one waiting impatiently for her back home.

She moves closer to the bed, dropping the damp towel she'd been using earlier onto Lola, currently sprawled across the rumpled sheets. Lola yelps, scrambling to throw the towel off whilst Maya uses the distraction to execute a sneak attack: a frenzy of kisses dotted across Lola's face, down her neck and up over her brow. The younger girl laughs, swatting at her girlfriend's shoulders.

"My love, I could _never_ hate you," Maya murmurs when their laughter has eased off into the type of unwaveringly warm silence that Lola’s learned to derive peace from. Before Maya, the silences Lola usually found herself in were awkward and strained, indicative of a recent fight with her father, sister, or both. But there’s a comfort in the quiet, she now understands. In knowing that with Maya, you can extend it, or break it, and either option will be welcomed with open arms.

"But?"

"But," Maya acknowledges, "it's our busiest day in February. I can't afford to get fired today."

Lola frowns. "Wouldn't it help the store to have a couple advertising all those flowers and chocolates? You know, _love is love?"_

"I think a straight couple would probably sell more."

Tracing her fingertips through Maya’s newly buzzed hair, Lola acquiesces with a sigh. "Love doesn't win, I guess."

Maya rolls her eyes, bumping their noses together for good measure. "So melodramatic," she says fondly. "I'll be back by two. You'll survive."

"Don't be so sure!" Lola calls out as Maya exits down the hallway, still shrugging on her infamous letterman jacket. Laughter bounces off the walls, and by the time she hears the lock slide into place, Lola is half-ready to launch herself from the balcony just to spite Maya: _See? I didn't survive, actually. Should've let me follow you around all day._

Then she realizes how clingy and disgustingly in-love that sounds, and _then_ she remembers there's something else she needs to do first.

**\---**

“So you’re the type to color in the mornings?” is what she’d said to Maya all those months ago, burning with warmth, safe and sated and defensive and nervous, a bundle of electric contradictions that Maya seemed to set alight from touch alone. Neither had known it then, but that question kick-started a tradition, one that Lola indirectly continued with her supermarket confession scheme.

They don’t _color in the mornings_ , but they’ve nonetheless made it a habit to leave little notes for each other, scraps of paper folded into pockets and tucked under pillows. A hastily drawn heart on the surface of Lola’s notebook in preparation for her first day of school post-rehab; words of tender reassurance scribbled across a post-it-note that Maya saved and keeps inside the folder she uses for her literacy classes at the association.

It therefore only makes sense in Lola’s mind that her grand plans for Valentine’s Day should somehow invoke the power of written word.

It’s also Daphné’s fault, technically.

When his eldest daughter first toyed with the prospect of moving out after graduation, Thierry made it abundantly clear that she’d always have a place to stay with them, no matter what. His promise helped to ease some of Daphné’s guilt — she was, after all, leaving her sister behind not months after promising they’d stay together from that moment onwards — and although Lola understood her decision, she knew remorse still lined Daphné’s shoulders, tinging their every interaction a shade of blue.

Caught between regret, assumed obligation, and the desire for freedom, Daphné chose to settle somewhere in the middle. As such, it meant that her bedroom, though mostly bare, was not yet free of ghosts. Boxes of trinkets, clothes, cards, photos, and possessions from a different time remained, her desk drawers filled with the stationary collection she had amassed over her ten-plus years of schooling.

(In contrast, a pre-rehab Lola typically only packed a single notebook and pen each day.)

“What’s mine is yours,” she’d said the last time she visited, squeezing Lola a fraction tighter than usual.

And what kind of sister would she be to deny that request?

Muscle memory causes her to knock on Daphné’s old door first. She laughs, quickly stepping in.

**\---**

**[iMessage - Maya 💜]**

**12:34pm**

**_dad says we have the place to ourselves tonight btw_ **

_Where’s he going ??_

**** **_late shift, then cemetery, then restaurant he and mum went to on 1st date_ **

**_he’s staying in hostel nearby, coming back tomorrow_ **

_Oh. I had a present for him :(_

**_hold on lol_**

**_what_ **

**_?????_ **

_I’ll give it to him tomorrow. Maybe we can all have breakfast together?_

**_a present for my father?? but not me??_ **

_Who said you weren’t getting anything?_ 😂

**_haven’t seen anything from you yet…_ **

_Patience_ _is a virtue xx_

😤😒😑❤️❤️❤️

**\---**

_Patience,_ Lola thinks, _can burn in hell._

Patience: an emotion, an action, a word. Eight letters. Two syllables. A virtue? Absolutely.

In the months following her stay at the hospital, it’s something Lola’s uncovered a fresh appreciation for. Something she’s found beneficial to cultivate across all of her relationships, too.

(Within reason. She refuses to feel guilty for not extending much empathy to Tiff before the pregnancy reveal, and even occasionally now after. It is, she’ll admit, somewhat thrilling to watch Tiff squirm when she’s afraid she’s crossed an invisible line or said the wrong thing.)

Still: patience might be many things, but patience does _not_ have a girlfriend stuck at work on Valentine's Day, nor is it currently suffering through said girlfriend-related withdrawals.

As with everything connected to Maya, time appears to move incredibly slow and incredibly fast, all at once. It’s as if she operates outside the laws of the universe, drawing everything within her orbit along for a ride where she sets the pace herself. The most astounding part, Lola thinks — although sometimes it _is_ also the worst part, too — is that she doesn’t seem to realize it either.

Sure, Maya always reacts good-naturedly whenever Jo calls her the Group Mom, and she’s clearly aware of how highly Max rates her, but otherwise appears mostly oblivious to the fact that she is, in many ways, the center of the galaxy that makes up La Mif. Everyone turns to her first for advice or help, if not just a friendly face to vent at. Her old apartment once proudly bore the title of being their main headquarters, and Lola knows there’s over a year’s worth of memories locked within those walls that she doubts she’ll ever really be privy to.

That’s also what it’s like with Maya sometimes, if Lola were to be honest (another habit she’s refined after the hospital). Maya has never been particularly open about her own feelings and fears, especially when directly pushed to confront them; more than once, Lola has wondered if it’ll always be this way. It’s an awful, overpowering suspicion that causes her body to alternate between flashes of ice and heat. She’s a raw nerve on those days, sensitive and snappy, often ignoring Maya’s texts or attempts at conversation to avoid said suspicion being further confirmed.

During the times where that possibility doesn’t fill her entirely with bitterness, Lola will muse that even the brightest star in the sky has its own secrets, the sort of stuff people down below will never have the honor of witnessing unless they fly upwards and make the effort themselves to meet in the middle. They continue to soak up its warmth anyways, accept whatever it offers, and maybe that’s all she can do, too: take it day by day with Maya, indulge in the give-and-take of their relationship, enjoy what they have whilst they still have it. Because nothing, Lola knows — _nothing_ in this life is ever promised.

Unfortunately, that fast-slow trajectory being around Maya entails — that magical, mystical time-bending — also seems to extend to _creating gifts for Maya_ , and with an hour or so left before she’s due back, Lola finds her confidence beginning to unravel. She thinks the stress of only just finishing her masterpiece five minutes before Maya returned would even be preferable, because it’d mean she’d have no choice but to power forwards, regardless of the outcome. Right now, an hour feels more like a lifetime, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the seeds of doubt already blooming in her mind, forcing her to reconsider if the gift is a good idea after all.

If she could have made something _better_ , something Maya truly deserves.

She looks down at the coffee table. Two hundred and fifty-five note cards lie in small piles, each inscribed with a number: one note card to represent one day they’ve been together. Daphné used to whip them out in the lead-up to an exam, filling the tiny square with color-coded glittery ink. Lola borrowed the same glitter gel pens for this too, but on the contrary, rarely feels like her relationship with Maya is one she has to study for. It’s something they’ve had to work hard to maintain, because it’s something worth the effort, but the missteps don’t feel like a failure.

Not anymore.

(Not usually.)

(Usually, they’re not roommates dealing with the added obstacle of one wanting a little more space.)

There’s no giant red F sitting at the top of their dating scorecard, no scorecard at all: only opportunities to learn, both individually and then together. It’s hard sometimes, but it’s what Lola wants, and she trusts Maya when she says she wants it too. She knows it’s the truth, because she can feel it in the way Maya kisses her right after waking up: always warm, always wanting, a morning mirror of how she’ll reach out at night with a sleepy arm thrown over Lola’s waist to tug their bodies closer.

Nothing in this life is ever promised, but they made a promise anyways, one long night approximately a week after Lola was released from the hospital. A promise to stick by each other through thick and thin. _Not_ unconditionally, because those are the promises that inevitably lead to some sort of heartbreak, but a promise to weather whatever storms life throws at them side by side, deciding afterwards if they’ll continue to navigate that path together, or choose another, separately.

Centering herself with a breathing exercise her new therapist taught her, Lola moves to pick up the stacks of cards.

Maya loves her. Maya will love this too.

**\---**

“You hate it.” 

Maya barks out a laugh. “I don’t hate it!” She steps backwards, walking away from the wall to stand beside her incredibly tense girlfriend. “I’m just wondering what it’s supposed to be…?”

Confusion settles over Lola’s face before morphing into stress, followed by a rising panic. “It’s a whale,” she says, manically motioning at the wall opposite her bed. When Maya woke today, it was covered in posters and polaroids. Now she sees hundreds of small palm cards arranged in the shape of — apparently — an aquatic animal. “Because that was, that was…our _thing._ ”

“Our first inside joke,” Maya nods, and Lola exhales in relief.

“Exactly. The first thing we shared for our first Valentine’s Day.”

“Clever. It’s just that it looks…”

“Too big? Too small? Too ugly?”

Maya winces. “Dead.”

Lola jumps as if she’s just been electrocuted, furiously whispering a string of words that Maya can’t decipher. She doesn’t think they’re words anyways, more like a string of ancient curses. Taking pity, she wraps an arm around Lola’s shoulders, pulling her closer before walking them back over to the wall. “Here, see?” she says, pointing at what she supposes is the whale’s left eye. Her finger traces the two lines of cards that have been tacked over it to form a cross. “It’s like what they do in cartoons, to represent death.”

“There weren’t enough cards to completely fill its body _and_ do heart-eyes. I had to get creative,” Lola mutters, and an overwhelming wave of affection surges across Maya’s chest. She encircles Lola again, lips pressed to her hairline in a lingering kiss.

“I _love_ it. I love _you_. This is the best Valentine’s Day gift I’ve ever received.”

“How many Valentine’s Day gifts _have_ you gotten, exactly?” Lola asks into the skin below Maya’s ear, triggering a shiver to cascade down her spine. Maya can feel Lola’s subsequent smirk at that, too.

“None, actually. I usually don’t get this far,” Maya says, and then quieter, after a pause: “I usually don’t want to.”

They continue to sway gently on the spot, silence enveloping the room until Maya, who has been studying the wall as she holds her girlfriend, eventually breaks it. “Lots of cards up there.”

Lola nods her agreement against Maya’s shoulder. “255.”

“Why 255?” Maya asks, her frown only deepening when Lola drifts back wearing a matching expression.

“Because…that’s how long we’ve been together?”

“Really? I thought it was 253.”

“What? No. 255 days between our first kiss and today.”

It’s not that Maya doesn’t consider the early hours of June 6th as when they officially became an item, because she certainly does. They talked about it not long after the hospital, where Thursday afternoons were infamously known as _crafter-noons_ : designed to let the patients freely work out their emotions through art, Lola decided to take advantage of the opportunity to simultaneously practice another artistic skill. It was her second favorite time of the week after visiting hours on the weekend, and several Thursdays were spent painting portraits of La Mif — more so Maya — onto the tiny canvases the staff supplied them with (something about budget cuts, something about not wanting to waste the larger canvases on people with no talent. It’s hard to remember why, because Lola was mostly focused on trying to capture the minute details of her girlfriend, from her eye-crinkles to her moles, the sharpness of her teeth in contrast to the gentleness of her smile.)

It was only during that brief period of awkwardness post-reunion, when everything felt just slightly off-kilter as they fumbled around and slowly became reacquainted, that Lola offered up the paintings in an attempt to slash through the tension. “These were _supposed_ to be for our anniversary,” she’d said, exaggerating a huff, “but I guess now works too.” The dam finally broken, Maya had burst out laughing and made the snap decision to lean in and kiss her senseless. They’d discussed anniversaries, among other, more serious topics, soon afterwards.

No, Maya definitely knows the sixth of June is their anniversary. It’s just that she also knows there definitely _isn’t_ 255 days between the sixth and now.

“Shit, fuck, shit,” Lola grits out when Maya has shown her the correct number on her phone: 253 indeed. “Two days. Fuck. Tell me right now that you made a mistake with your gift too, or I’ll have to jump out the window.”

Maya puts some space between them, faking a look of shock that would rival even Juliette Binoche on her best day. Another thing she knows: as sarcastic as they may be, sometimes you need to guide your girlfriend away from her dark and depressive thoughts towards a more lighter, reassuring conversation.

And other times you simply need to get on her level.

“Didn’t I tell you? Your present _is_ me _._ ” With a flair straight from the movies, Maya fishes a badge out of her pockets, holding it up like she’s struck gold. Lola doesn’t know why: bright pink, heart-shaped, and flowing with garish red ribbons, it’s a monstrosity of which Lola’s never witnessed before.

“Love: the gift that keeps on giving,” she recites monotonously after it’s been pinned to Maya’s jacket, the text printed at the center now clear.

“I put a lot of effort into this. Ignore the store logo.”

“Bitch,” Lola whispers, moving forward to drag Maya down onto the bed with her. Maya surrenders easily, like it's the easiest thing in the world, and together they fall, a shaking mess of limbs and laughter. “You’re evil, and I love you.”

**\---**

Fiddling with the record player, Lola swears under her breath. She doesn’t want to accidentally break it — it’s one of the few items Maya brought with her from the old apartment that wasn’t packed away in storage or later thrown out — but she doesn’t want to ask for help either. Doing so would involve disturbing her girlfriend, and Lola decided a few hours ago that she’ll do anything in her power to ensure that the relaxed, happy smile on Maya’s face is a permanent fixture. At least for tonight.

Besides, it’s only a record player. How hard can it be to start?

“Try plugging it in at the wall,” Maya calls out five frustrating minutes later, after Lola has turned every knob and pressed every button to zero success.

 _That’d do it_ , she thinks, but her annoyance melts away when the music begins to play after a crackle. Shuffling back into the kitchen, she sits at the table and studies Maya, currently standing by the sink and chopping up thin, tiny sticks of cucumber and carrot. Lola’s Valentine’s Day present was _not_ her girlfriend wearing a hideous badge, as she’d soon discovered. Instead, she received the piece of paper Maya had copied Lola’s phone number onto last April, when she’d decided to reach out with an apology and an invitation ( _the power of written word prevails_ , Lola can’t help but think smugly). Accompanying the note was a single red rose and the offer to take over cooking duties tonight, much to both of their relief. In theory, it’s a light meal — a platter of miniature sushi rolls and inari, dishes of creamy mayo, wasabi, and soy sauce; all homemade — but what it represents is much larger.

“This was my mother’s recipe,” Maya had murmured as Lola searched for all the ingredients necessary, and on her return from the pantry, she’d made sure to brush a knuckle across Maya’s lower back. _I’m here_ , it said. _I love you._ They’d worked in silence after that — Maya continuing to slice, Lola in charge of ambience — and it was, as most things with them were, devastatingly nice.

“You know this song is actually really sad, right?”

“Sad things can _still_ be romantic,” Lola huffs, taking it personally though she knows Maya means no offence.

Maya chuckles, unsurprised by Lola’s defensiveness; usually it’s directed towards her families but as of late has flared up whenever someone even vaguely questions things like her fashion taste or favorite bands. “Of course, but he’s _still_ singing about mass death.”

“Wait, what?”

Halting her chopping, Maya recalls a memory both bitter and sweet. The first time Lola posted this song on her Insta story — the evening of the supermarket rejection — Maya had left Char’s house early, opting to instead spend the rest of her night mindlessly scrolling through dozens of music sites, each proclaiming a different truth behind Prince’s lyrics. The search was ultimately fruitless: she was, after all, seeking an answer that she knew only Lola could supply her with. An answer she perhaps already knew herself.

Even when dramatically dimmed — because Lola favors scented candles and they both love natural light — the glow from the kitchen lamp still catches on the edge of her knife, reflecting into Maya’s eyes when she twists the handle. “Well,” she eventually says, starting up on the vegetables again, “the _purple rain_ refers to the apocalypse. The sky’s turned purple with everyone’s blood. The whole world is collapsing, and you’re with the person you love. All you can do at that point is believe you’re going to make it together.”

Lola mulls it over for a moment, lets the sound of Maya’s careful slicing fill the room. “A purple sky sounds like an environmental nightmare,” she offers at last, because she needs a few minutes more to process the idea of love, somehow, being the sole guiding force through the end of times. Is love really that powerful? Should it be that powerful? _Is that not dangerous?_ Lola wants to ask. She doesn't, though she knows Maya, who once said she didn’t want to _fix_ Lola, she just _missed_ her, would likely agree.

“Mmm. Which is why I’ll be running around picking up trash when it happens. We’ll need to counteract as much damage as we can.” Maya looks over her shoulder, smiling as if she knows why Lola’s focusing on that, out of everything.

(She does.)

“I’ll fight off the zombies whilst you do that,” Lola says solemnly, nodding through the sudden rush of gratitude she feels.

“Who said anything about it being the _zombie_ apocalypse? If anything, it _is_ going to be an environmental one. You’re going to regret killing that plant, you know.”

Lola draws in a sharp breath. “It was an _accident_ ,” she says slowly, but dismisses her frustration with an easy hand wave. “Whatever. I’ll just have to fight off all the zombie plants for you then.”

Maya pauses again, extending her spare arm to lace their fingers together. “Thank you. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” Lola says, although what she really means is also a _thank you_ , and it’s not the apocalyptic company she’s grateful for, either.

(Maya knows that too.)

**\---**

Maya might have been the sole chef for the night, but they clean up together — both during and after the meal.

“Wasabi,” Maya says, gently poking a chopstick into Lola’s jaw where a smear of green lingers after her most recent bite. Maya swipes at it, collecting the paste on the tip before holding it out for Lola, who licks it right off the stick. It’s a surprisingly intimate moment, even though the wood of the chopstick slightly burns her tongue when they rub together, but that’s intimate in its own weird way too, and Lola thinks _fuck it_. They don’t have to explain themselves. Not here. If it works for them, it works for them, and she’s just grateful that in this moment, she’s alive and in love and allowed to have this.

“How many times have you made this before?” she asks. Clear enough that Maya will know what Lola’s offering her the space to answer, but still vague enough to allow her to skirt around the real question without feeling pressured into either option.

“A couple of times for La Mif. Max, mostly.”

“When you were dating?”

“No, but that was my first thought when we broke up. He was really, really upset and I didn't know how to react. It was like, _should I make him some sushi to help?”_

Lola laughs, although she quickly tries to hide it with another bite. “Sorry,” she says through a mouthful of half-chewed rice; Maya doesn’t even grimace, which is how Lola knows she truly loves her. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed.”

“It’s fine. It’s nice to talk about it sometimes. We don’t really do that, he and I. Especially not now, because of…you know.”

“Must be hard talking to your ex-girlfriend about your current girlfriend when she bullied your ex’s current girlfriend.” Lola frowns and finally swallows the ball of rice. “Think I said that wrong. Too many _exes_ or _current girlfriends_.”

This time it’s Maya who laughs, dipping her roll into the soy. “Sounds about right for a group like La Mif.”

Afterwards, when they’ve taken a break from flicking warm, soapy water at each other to actually scrub their plates, Maya hums. “Before Max, I used to try and make inari for myself all the time.”

“One of your many specialties?”

“My only one, honestly. The only family recipe my mother taught me. We’d make it together, and then my father got worse. She didn’t have much time on her hands anymore, but that’s all I had.”

“Thank you for making it tonight,” Lola says, leaning her head on Maya’s shoulder. Maya presses back into the touch, their hands finding each other under a layer of soap bubbles.

“Next Valentine’s Day, you’ll have to hunt for a Lecomte family recipe.”

 _Next, next, next_ is all Lola hears, and she shakes her head to focus before she can spontaneously combust into a swarm of butterflies. “Not sure we have any.”

“What about all that stuff Thierry makes us?”

“What? Three types of pasta and a Greek salad, on rotation?” Lola chuckles. “Those aren’t Lecomte family recipes, they’re just white people food.”

“Ugh. I miss Sekou.”

It's when they’re putting away the dried cutlery that Lola bumps her hip against Maya’s. “Speaking of Dad. You said you had a gift for him earlier?”

Surprise colors Maya’s cheeks. “Oh! It’s just a card to thank him for letting me stay here.”

Lola groans. “Do you know how long I spent today, worrying about what you were giving him?

“What did you think I was going to give your father for _Valentine’s_ Day?”

“I don’t know! It’s not like I have much experience in relationship expectations.”

Maya grows quiet after that, so much so that Lola’s beginning to wonder if she unintentionally slut-shamed her own girlfriend: did she accidentally put emphasis on her own lack of dating history, and did Maya take that to mean she believes Maya’s had _too_ much dating experience in comparison? _Look at what she’s done to me_ , Lola thinks exasperatedly, and more than a little fond. Her therapist doesn’t want her obsessing over the past and all those long lost what-ifs, but for one moment Lola imagines inventing a time-travel machine purely to go back and inform the version of herself who lives in clubs and strangers’ beds that this is what she’s going to be dealing with soon.

She’s startled out of that image by two strong arms sliding across her stomach from behind, a chin coming to rest upon her shoulder.

“The good news is that you don’t have to worry about getting _my_ parents anything for Valentine’s Day,” Maya says next to her ear, and Lola freezes, unsure of how to respond but nonetheless captivated by the richness of Maya’s tone: sad and low and teasing, all at once. “Maybe Christmas, though. They’re really into Christmas.”

**\---**

Afterwards, they decide to quickly tidy the rest of the apartment, if only so they don’t have to do it in an early morning rush before Thierry arrives home tomorrow. Maya doesn’t have any shifts scheduled for the next day, and Lola therefore fully intends to keep her in bed for as long as possible.

Maya works on blowing out all the candles. “Surprised you didn’t buy 255 of _these_ ,” she jokes, to which Lola responds by flicking at her with a dish towel. (There aren’t any cheap candle stores in their local area anyways. She’s already checked.)

When Maya heads off to the bathroom to rinse streaks of melted wax from her hands, Lola takes the opportunity to pull out her phone and open up Insta. Clicking on the ‘New Story’ icon, she selects a song, types in a number, and locates the purple heart emoji before publishing.

 _255,_ it reads. Most of her followers will assume it’s Valentine’s Day related, but Maya’s the only person in the entire world who will know the whole truth. Lola won’t witness her reaction for a while – Maya doesn’t touch her phone after 9:00pm unless it’s an emergency or they’re at a party – but that’s fine. They’ll be together when she inevitably does, and then Lola will become the only person in the entire world to truly see something, too: the specific smile Maya reserves for her when they’re alone, which is a gift in itself.

**\---**

“You awake?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

When Maya laughs, it’s an unhurried, sleepy sound whose full brilliance is muffled by the pillow pressed against her mouth. Lola thinks it’s her favorite sound anyways. “That doesn’t make any sense,” Maya mumbles, shifting to the side. Her eyes flutter open moments later, perfectly mastering the confused-but-besotted expression that never fails to make Lola’s heart skip a beat. To know that there’s something so tangibly precious mere centimeters from her hands, someone who loves her so fiercely, and she them, right here, cross-eyed and breathing shallow — it’s indescribable. 

_"You_ don’t make any sense,” she snaps back, waiting for Maya to laugh again. As she does, Lola moves to cover her own face with the pillow, hiding the grin not even the pull of sleep can contain. Mission accomplished.

Banter has always played a role in their relationship, from the moment they met and exchanged quiet, snarky barbs in community service uniforms, to the charged few minutes before their first kiss, where both knew what they were hurtling towards: you could taste it in the air that night, the rainy atmosphere acting as a conductor, not a dampener.

It took time after the hospital to relearn each other’s grooves and smooth out unnecessary bumps, so that gentle teasing could thrive again without one needing to worry that she’d pushed past an unspoken boundary. As they grew more and more comfortable, stilted nights filled with uncertainty became a distant memory only reserved for the aftermath of an argument, and Lola now finds that she’s lost count of how many dawns have been broken in this fashion instead.

Delirious with exhaustion. Weary beyond words. Right on the cliff’s edge of sleep, waiting to topple over, but fighting to stay awake for yet another minute because neither wants to miss the sound of the other’s laughter as they stumble through an old anecdote that _needs_ to be rehashed again.

“Who do you think would die first in La Mif if there was an actual zombie apocalypse?” Lola whispers after they’ve calmed. Silence has settled over the room, but Lola knows that Maya’s still awake; she can feel the slow blink of her stare, all the adoration it carries.

Maya pauses, thinking it through. It’s how she approaches almost everything, Lola’s noticed. Every conversation deserves careful consideration, whether they’re discussing what to cook for dinner or what it means to be raised by an alcoholic. The hypothetical zombie apocalypse is obviously no different.

“Jo. Maybe Bilal,” Maya says finally. “You?”

“Tiff.” Lola squeezes her eyes shut as she lets the word hang in the air. Tiff has been a sore subject between them, although that wasn’t always true. Once — a mere _few weeks ago_ — any mention of Tiff’s name would be met with an eye-roll, maybe a scoff. That’s been replaced by a sympathetic head tilt now, so Lola tries to avoid actually using Tiff’s name even when she’s the main topic of conversation.

It’s not that Lola feels as if the cyberbullying stalker account was particularly traumatizing given all the other tragedies that befell during that period of her life, but it’s still a _something_. A something she didn’t expect everyone in La Mif to overlook so quickly, even before they knew that Tiff was sinking under the weight of her newfound motherhood.

“Well, she’s a lot stronger than she looks,” Maya says, which Lola reluctantly supposes is true, “but…”

“But?” Lola tries to coax her tone into something resembling concern and definitely _not_ excitement.

Maya shifts awkwardly. “I, uh, wouldn’t be surprised if she was eaten by a zombie really quickly.”

“Really quickly?”

 _“Really_ quickly,” Maya confirms, a certain playfulness suddenly dancing behind her eyes. “Probably because you wouldn’t be there to protect her.”

“I’m saving all my strength for you and your trash collecting.”

Maya hums in quiet delight. “Sounds like we’d make a good team.”

“I think,” Lola says slowly, “that a lot of good things are possible when we stick together.”

“I remember,” Maya replies, and Lola knows she’s recalling their earlier promise. “I think so, too.” She sounds confident, but in a way that’s maybe too easy, too guaranteed: if anything, the edge of worry that Lola picks up on makes her feel better. She’s not alone in her flashes of anxiety, then.

Holding onto that belief — that no matter what it is they’re feeling, at least they’re still on the same page, if not in the same book — Lola continues. “Do you think it’s possible to rewrite something’s meaning?”

“Are we still talking about _Purple_ _Rain_ here?” Maya asks, sounding as if she’s expecting either answer.

“Maybe. Yes. No?” Lola exhales in clear frustration. A simple question without a simple answer. It’s hard to understand herself, let alone articulate to another person, that yes, she’s referring to Prince’s specific vision for the end of the world — the one where love remains the only weapon necessary — but it’s also not about Prince, nor the end of the world, not really.

It’s about them. It always is.

“It’s just a lot of death,” she says eventually, because she figures it’s as good a starting point as any. “First _Purple Rain_ , then the whale.” Or maybe not. “Ugh, it’s so stupid.”

Maya frowns. “The whale? That was just...an artistic accident. It’s not actually dead. It’s not real. I loved it anyways.”

“Not _that_ whale. Well, yeah that whale, actually, but that’s not what -” cutting herself off, Lola covers her face with her hands and groans. Maya nods, though Lola doesn’t see it, and inches closer.

“We’ve changed a lot since we first met,” she says. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“I know,” Lola sighs. “That’s why it’s so stupid. I _know_ change is good.”

“Well, not always. But it’s okay if we, uh, kill the whale. It’s okay that we’re changing, too.”

“Yeah,” Lola says, but she sounds miserable, so Maya endeavors to try another approach.

“You know, I only knew that stuff about _Purple Rain_ because I looked it up. That’s never what it meant to _me_ , though.”

“What did it mean to you?”

“Just a song I’d hear on the radio, or at Mif karaoke night. Not much until _that_ night.”

“The night we kissed?”

“Before, when you came to the supermarket. That’s when I researched it. But the meaning changed again after we kissed.”

“So what does it mean now?” Lola lowers her hands to stare, curious and hopeful and scared. Maya’s heart feels so tight with the possibility of disappointing her, that it's like there’s a fist squeezed around it.

“It means,” she says, reaching out to sweep her knuckles down Lola’s chest, resting right above her heart. She taps the spot, once, trying to calm her own pulse by matching it with the one pumping underneath her fingertips. “It means I think of you and me, and how happy I was that night. How happy I am now, still.”

 _Then why don’t you want to live together? Why can’t we change in that way?_ Lola desperately wants to spit out. She’s been patient and gentle, she thinks, fully aware of Maya’s escalating reluctance. She’s tried to offer as much time and space as she can stand in response, all in the hopes that it’ll maybe cause a shift in how Maya feels.

Maybe that was a mistake.

Swallowing her maybe-regrets down, Lola doesn’t say any of it, instead focusing on the slow movements of Maya’s hand.

It doesn’t calm her down completely, but it helps. She suspects it might be helping Maya as well.

“Do you remember when I said we aren’t our parents? That you’re not your mother and I’m not mine?”

Lola nods in affirmation, not entirely trusting her voice yet.

“That’s still true, isn’t it? Nobody can determine where your life goes. They can impact it. They can help to change it. But they can’t...choose for you. Nobody can take that gut instinct away from you.” She inhales. “And I think that’s what Prince meant. You can want someone to guide you through the purple rain, but you still have to make that decision yourself. Are you going to follow them? Or are you going to stay?”

“Not much of a choice, really,” Lola mutters.

“Sure,” Maya nods. “But you’re already with the person you love when the purple rain starts. That counts for something, I think.”

Before Lola can reply, Maya continues. “Or maybe it doesn’t. Isn’t that what you asked? Can’t you re-write a narrative, make it yours and decide the meaning?”

Usually Lola’s the one asking things in their relationship, always full of questions. Everything flowing from Maya’s mouth is odd, in comparison.

 _No_ , Lola corrects herself. _Not odd._ Just different. Just new. And exactly what she’s always wanted: for Maya to open up in her own endearingly weird, wonderful way.

“Because maybe that’s what Prince meant, but that’s not what it means to me, okay?” Maya barrels forward, her cheeks pink in the way Lola’s only ever seen them turn after exercise or during sex. She’s willingly lost control, then, throwing all caution to the wind and letting herself go. Letting herself be. “It was a nothing song, and then it was something. You helped to make it into something, but I made that choice, too. I chose to break up with Char, and I chose to wait for you at the hospital, and I chose to move in here, even though…”

“Even though what?” Lola presses. Her desire to finally hear the truth outweighs her fear of what the truth will be.

“Even though it’s not what I want for us. Not for a while.”

“But _why?”_

When Maya hesitates, Lola already knows she’s not going to receive a direct answer to that question. “Maybe we shouldn’t think of it as change. Maybe we should think of it as growth.”

“Is there even a difference?”

“If we don’t have to follow our parents’ trajectories, why do we have to follow Lucas and Eliott’s?” is what Maya shoots back, soft and firm in the way she always is when suggesting something she believes is the best option but doesn’t want it to sound like an order. It’s not, Lola realizes. It’s not an order. It’s another choice. Maya is meeting her halfway, offering a path, and Lola gets to choose whether they walk it together. If they don’t — and even if they do — they can change their mind again later, see what else fits.

It’s what they promised after all, and suddenly everything clicks into place.

Love isn’t a sole feeling, nor the inherent guiding force through the end of times. It’s the _choice_ behind that love – the constant choices, the ones you make every day, the turning up and the dedication to keep going – that really matters in the end. That’s what guides you through the purple rain. _Honey, it’s time we all reach out for something new_ , she hears Prince serenade her mentally. Not mocking, not mean, but soothing. She doesn't have to give up _Purple Rain_ , or the whales, but it's okay if they do. They can choose to rewrite the meaning over and over, or keep the importance of the old one, but still grow from it.

“We can…grow, and make our own trajectory. Our own meaning,” Lola says finally. “Even if that means not moving in together.”

Maya closes her eyes and nods, the barest hint of a smile visible in the low light.

"I still need you to tell me _why_ ," Lola whispers. "Okay? We still need to talk, we both do."

“I know.”

“I know you know. We've only been avoiding it for a _month_.”

“I’m sorry,” Maya says. Her eyes aren’t wet, but there’s a sad glimmer there that Lola wants to erase. She leans in to press a kiss under her eyelids instead, where the dots of eyeliner used to permanently be, and trails her lips down.

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers into Maya’s cheek, feeling the clench and unclench of the muscle when her girlfriend speaks.

“We need to work on our apologies.”

“I’ll add it to the list.” Lola grins sleepily through a yawn. “But in the morning? I’m really tired now.”

“Yes,” Maya says. “Yes, of course. Me too.”

Lola thinks that’s it as she lets herself be drawn into Maya’s arms, but a voice cuts through the quiet, steady and clear. “But not you, okay? I’m not…tired of you.”

“Good,” Lola replies, tugging the blankets up, confident in the knowledge that Maya will still be here snuggled under them tomorrow, and the day after that. “Because I’m not tired of you either.”  
  


**\---**  
  


**Author's Note:**

> was anybody going to tell me purple rain is actually about the end of the word, or was i supposed to discover that myself when doing research for this fic?
> 
> the "remember when i said we aren't our parents?" convo is a reference to my other fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359178?view_full_work=true), as are a couple of other moments bc this is the AUMSFFCU (ao3 user mellodrama skam france fic cinematic universe). watch out marvel ❤️ 
> 
> if you would like to complain / theorize / clown about the skamverse with me, i'm on tumblr @maxbernini


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